


Red Square

by MyrrhMyrrh



Category: Metro 2033 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assorted Rangers - Freeform, Assorted Red Line Characters, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Pavel is having a Bad Time, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, mute artyom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-12-21 01:31:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21066566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrrhMyrrh/pseuds/MyrrhMyrrh
Summary: Artyom had come this far. He had chased Pavel from the Red Line to Venice, and now finally here. One of them was going to die, and he didn't plan on being the one to fall. At the wrong moment, though, something made him hesitate...





	1. Confrontation

**Author's Note:**

> After several game over screens during the final confrontation with Pavel (mostly through distraction at the wrong moment, but also because of bad judgment regarding cover) it occurred to me to wonder about what might happen with the other characters. No promises as to how good it will be, but I did my best.

Red Square. Artyom had chased Pavel so far.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling as betrayed in his entire life as when the Red soldier had turned him over to be tortured. They were supposed to be Musketeers. One for all. Pavel had been his Athos, his companion, the one person he’d trusted more than even his Spartan comrades. They had saved each other’s lives, from Nazis and demons and the hangman’s noose, and then Pavel had _thrown him away_ like he had never mattered at all.

Maybe he hadn’t.

He ducked behind a wooden barricade, peeking out when the hail of gunfire stopped long enough to zero in on the laser sight of a sniper. One shot from his Valve and the man didn’t get back up. He ducked back behind the wood, praying to he wasn’t sure who that the wood would hold up against the lead that clattered against it. Rinse and repeat. The rhythm of it calmed him, took his mind off the coming confrontation.

Pavel was still talking, had been since the ambush started. Artyom was ignoring him, darting around to search nearby corpses. His filters were almost gone. He managed to scrounge a few more minutes’ worth and avoid getting shot, taking cover behind an old car after placing a mine or two. Just in time, it seemed, because Pavel, his Athos, ordered men into the courtyard just as he finished the last sniper off. Ordered them out there to kill him.

As the first mine went off, he took grim pleasure in the scream. Perfect aim. He put his Valve away in favor of the Saiga-12 he carried, making sure it was fully loaded. They would regret coming after him. He scooted around the car just as the second claymore went off, unloading three rounds of buckshot at point-blank range. He waited, listening for the sound of more footsteps, but none came. The confusion was strong enough to cut through the flames of his anger for a brief moment as he realized that was it. No more men. They hadn’t dedicated more forces than this to Red Square, of all places?

The seconds ticked by as he crept into the building. This was it. The final reckoning. Was he ready? Not in the least. The pain that was fueling his anger was making itself known as a knot in his stomach. He crouched next to the stairs behind the wall, switching to his RPK. This would call for accuracy, not blowing holes in cover he might need later.

“So, Spartan, you decided to show up? You got balls, huh, that's for sure!”

That was Pavel’s voice, setting the knot in his stomach off like a pipe bomb. Rage and hurt raced through his veins as he checked his ammo.

“Come on, Ranger, kill and maim, like you always do it, huh? Or you're a chicken? You're chicken or what?”

Yes, very mature, Pavel. Artyom snorted. Such an obvious taunt wasn’t going to get him to make a mistake.

” So, Artyomuchka, you chickening out, huh? No - ah, of course, it's not like burning helpless mutants, I know!”

Artyom twitched at the pet name. It used to bring him such joy to hear it, but- wait. _Helpless mutants? Pavel, what sort of drugs are you on?_ He fought down the confusion again, focusing on the anger. Only one of them could live through this… right? That was the situation. He knew it would come to this. So why did he feel sick all of a sudden? Now wasn’t the time. It was time for action. So he ducked around the corner and let loose a volley, grateful for Pavel’s suddenly shitty aim. He knew at least one of his rounds had connected, though he had somehow swung wide with his own fire. Shit, he couldn’t afford to go soft, not now. He needed to get it over with. But he didn’t want to.

The sound of scrambling snapped him out of his ill-timed introspection and he raced up the stairs.

“Aaagh_... bly..._ You're one tough... son of a bitch... So ah, you're coming to finish the job or what? Come on! Come up here!”

No Pavel at the top, but he hadn’t really expected it. Gunfire rang from the end of the hall, giving away the Red’s location. He surveyed the area and thought that maybe the wooden detritus laying around might make good cover. It was a little small, but it would do.

Artyom ducked out and fired, missing completely. Luckily, so had Pavel. He crouched behind cover and put in a fresh clip, frowning at how much ammo he was wasting. It was supposed to be going in bodies, not walls. Never mind that he was having second thoughts about wanting the rounds in that particular body… His stomach had twisted when he heard the pain in Pavel’s voice, and it hadn’t stopped churning since.

He yanked himself back out of his thoughts. He needed to stop or he was going to be killed. It was clear that was Pavel’s intent, and Artyom didn’t have the option of sneaking away. Not now. His watch beeped, reminding him that he needed to change filters, and soon. He switched them out, frowning when he realized it was the last one he had. He’d have to scrounge more, which meant he needed to finish this fast. He popped out to fire again, but Pavel was closer this time. Artyom could see him properly, and his chest tightened. He hesitated just one moment too long, and then searing agony ripped through his body. One, two, three. Four. Mostly his stomach, but one of the white-hot points was in his chest. It took him a heartbeat or two to realize he’d been shot, and then he was falling, falling… The little Dark One was screaming in his head, but it was too fuzzy… He couldn’t understand. The sound of shuffling boots – or _boot_, the other one dragging – came closer.


	2. Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pavel has succeeded in severely wounding Artyom, which was not at all what he had in mind.

Pavel felt his stomach flip upside down. No. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hurried over, dragging his wounded leg the best he could. Artyom had just stood there with this… _look…_ on his face, and Pavel had taken the opportunity to aim for center mass, just counting coup, but something was horribly, terribly wrong.

He got to the Spartan in record time, wounds protesting in the background and summarily ignored. “Artyom?!”

No. No, there was blood. This was bad. There was a lot of blood… Pavel yanked open his d'Artagnan’s jacket and shirt and cursed loudly. No bulletproof vest. What idiot would go to the surface without a vest?! “_Yo-moyo_, Artyomich, _ty durak…_ Where are your med kits? Where are they?”

His heart stopped for a moment as he realized those bottle green eyes that had mesmerized him before were closing. “Okay, okay, no time. I’ll find them. _Tak tak tak…_ There. Hang on, d'Artagnan…!” He found them in the last place he would have expected, tucked against Artyom’s back. Frantically, Pavel began bandaging, muttering to himself because the nervous energy had to go somewhere.

“Okay, okay. This is all wrong, but we’ll fix it, _blin’_. Just keep breathing. Okay, that’s bad, that’s really bad… _Blyad'…_ Just stop bleeding, already!” He was so focused on his futile efforts that he entirely failed to notice the little Dark One approach. It touched him.

Pavel didn’t remember moving, but he was standing, facing a little monstrosity. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead, he looked around in panic for Artyom.

_You didn’t want to do it, _a voice echoed, seeming to be in his head and all around at the same time. _I help. Please don’t let him leave me all alone!_

Pavel looked at the beast in shock. Had it said that? “I-I… I need to get to Artyom. The bleeding… It was supposed to be me, not him.”

Just like that, he was staring at Artyom again, watching him struggle to keep breathing. Was it the filter? Or the bullet? His thoughts were interrupted by the Spartan coughing, causing more blood to leak out. The Dark One was touching him still, but that was the least of his worries.

_Life…_ Something like smoke but focused leaked out of the little one’s hand as he brought it to the wounds, sliding into each of them. Pavel panicked for a moment until he realized the bleeding was stopping.

“You did that?” Pavel managed, staring in shock at the little one. It nodded, which not only confirmed but proved it understood him. He realized, numb, that when this was over he had a lot of thinking ahead of him. But never mind that. Artyom was still choking, a little blood splattered across the inside of his mask. “_Tak tak tak tak tak…_ Okay. Let’s get you on your side, _chuvak…_” He carefully rolled Artyom, frowning when blood ran out of the young man’s mouth. Checking for another filter, because the choking hadn’t stopped, he felt his blood run cold. No more. Okay, so what about his own? He had- oh. Also spent. Damn it. Well, he could take the one off his own mask. That was exactly what he did, after taking a deep, deep breath that was possibly his last. He held it as he screwed the filter in, then scanned the area for dead bodies to loot, relieved to hear Artyom’s breathing finally even out.

Just as he felt like his lungs were going to burst, the little Dark One came back – _when had he left? _– carrying filters. He didn’t question it, instead choosing to accept the help. After he could breathe, he made his way back over to his friend (oh, how he had failed him) and checked to see how he was managing.

There was a tap on his shoulder. The little Dark One pointed to his wounded leg, then held out bandages, keeping contact so it could speak. _For the hurt. Artyom uses them._

Right. He was wounded. He’d forgotten, with all the adrenaline rushing through his system. Artyom had stopped bleeding, was breathing alright now, so he should take care of that before he was useless to his d'Artagnan.

Okay, now that was dealt with. So, what next? He had failed his mission. There was no way he could complete it by himself. That meant that going back to the Red Line was a death sentence. He deserved no less, but Artyom needed a doctor, not just these flimsy bandages and the magic of a freak. So. So, so, so… He could get to Polis from here. Polis had doctors. Could he carry Artyom that far? He would have to. He held the now-unconscious Ranger’s hand, thinking it might be his last chance to do so, when he felt another tap.

_They’re lonely and afraid. They want him to stay here with them forever. _Pavel blinked to find himself in a landscape of red light and blackened, reaching arms. _I can’t keep them away for long. Come, we go._

Pavel had to kick a few of the arms away from him.

_We go. I can’t protect you._

He blinked and sighed in relief to find they were back in the real world… though he felt that what he’d seen was no less real. If the little one was to be believed, then he needed to hurry. He injected himself with some pain medication so that he could be faster about getting them to Polis and hoisted Artyom onto his back. “Come on, Artyomich, let’s get moving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the second chapter. Feedback is appreciated, but please be kind in your honesty. I am but a soft and squishy author who doesn't handle barbs particularly well.


	3. Transit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the one hand, Artyom needs a doctor, badly. On the other, Pavel hopes that a small rest will be just enough delay that the Red Line's plan won't involve Artyom any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter Three; sorry it's so short. The next few chapters probably won't be much longer, actually, but I'll try not to shortchange you. 
> 
> I honestly didn't think anyone would like what I had to offer and I almost gave up before even posting, but now I really want to continue. Thank you to everyone who's left a comment - you've really given me the will to keep writing. I appreciate you all, more than I can tell you.

Pavel was beginning to regret not leaving more gear behind.

Yes, guns and ammo were useful, but his priority was Artyom. Then again, how could he defend the wounded Ranger if he had no weapons? He didn’t know what lay between there and Polis. His leg screamed through the medication as he kept walking, remembering to remove all his insignia and any symbol that might give him away as a Red soldier. If he told no one, they would let him stay with Artyom just a little longer… Artyom wasn’t likely to be in as much trouble, either.

Maybe just a short rest. A tiny one. He needed to check on Artyom, anyway. He found a safe enough alcove to duck into and hobbled his way there, laying Artyom down carefully. The Ranger was still unconscious – who wouldn’t be, after what Pavel had done to him? – and his forehead was covered with a thin film of perspiration. He must be in a lot of pain, and the trip wasn’t doing him any favors, but it had to happen. Pavel cursed quietly and decided that they could afford a few minutes to rest. He checked his watch. The longer they could delay it, the better…

The little Dark One hovered nearby, looking… Well, Pavel couldn’t tell what it was looking. Its face was just that alien to him. But he’d come to realize that at least for now, it didn’t mean him or Artyom any harm. In fact, it was attached to the Spartan for some reason, following the slayer of its kind around like a puppy. He didn’t understand it, but some things weren’t for him to understand. Better just to accept them and move on, like always. He absently pet Artyom’s wild, dark hair, hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that it was a comfort so long as Artyom didn’t realize who was doing it.

“This is all wrong, Artyomich… Maybe one day, after I’m gone, you can forgive me, eh? They said that there was a place for you… with- with us. I just wanted… _Blya_… Doesn’t matter now what I wanted.” He shook his head. “Just live, alright? It’s fine, whatever happens to me. But you live, _dorogoy._” He had called Artyom that once before, when they had traveled together. It had made the young man blush so prettily. It didn’t have the same effect now, of course, but whose fault was that? Still, Pavel meant it, more than he had when they first escaped from the Nazis. Artyom had an uncanny way of worming into the soul that Pavel didn’t have and hijacking his thoughts when he least expected it.

After a few minutes, they couldn’t stall anymore. And by they, Pavel meant himself. He knew what was coming, but Artyom needed a doctor now. Maybe his Ranger friends would leave him in Polis to recover and he would be safe? He could only hope. He carefully hoisted Artyom onto his back again, hissing in pain, and resumed their trek.


	4. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pavel and Artyom have made it to Polis. Now, Pavel has some decisions to make.

Polis. Pavel knew he couldn’t stay for long.

He wanted to, wanted for things to be different, but that wasn’t the hand he’d been dealt. He sat by Artyom’s bedside, marveling that they’d let him get even this far, and held the Ranger’s hand once more. He would leave soon, and he wanted one last memory that wasn’t filled with torture or betrayal or fear before he went home to his death.

Artyom had woken, briefly, when they had reached the gates. He couldn’t be sure how, but the Ranger had gotten all three of them into the city, despite Miller’s issues. Then, he had lost consciousness again. The doctors had worked on him for what seemed like forever, while Pavel paced outside and expected any moment to be taken for questioning. When they told him Artyom would probably live, his heart leapt into his throat, only to plummet to his shoes when Miller said he’d be taken to D6 to rest and recover there. Choices, choices… Not that the choice he made would be much difference. They didn’t stand a chance against the Red Line.

That was it. Pavel had made his decision. It might at least make them reconsider taking Artyom back with them. He stood and went to the little one. “Tell them about an attack on D6, eh? These talks are a distraction. If you want Artyom to live, you have to tell them.” He patted the baby’s head, surprised at the affection he felt for the Dark One. He knew the baby needed details, and he wasn’t particularly surprised when the little one touched him and _took_ them. It was bad, an awful feeling, but made less so by his lack of resistance. Feeling sick to his stomach, he picked himself up in the aftermath, trying not to feel violated. It didn’t know any better.

If he thought for a minute that it would hurt the attack itself, Pavel would have kept silent. He was Red, until his death. That much was true. But it wouldn’t even make a difference in the casualty count, except for one person. He believed that with his whole being.

After watching the little one wander away, he went back to Artyom, just to see him one last time. “Live, d'Artagnan,” he whispered in the Ranger’s ear, giving his hand a squeeze before leaving. He vanished into the tunnels, steeling himself for noose or bullet or virus, whatever Korbut had in store for him. He would suffer before he died, that was the only thing he was sure of.

Except he didn’t die. It was Korbut, and the majority of the brass, who never returned. Pavel found himself wondering if it was his fault, until one of the survivors, a friend, told him what had happened. About how everything had been going according to plan (mostly), they had won, and then Miller – or what was left of him after the war train had barreled over the previous one and plowed through the Rangers – had told another survivor to set off the explosives they’d planted as a contingency. Pavel insisted that he try to remember more, desperate to learn as much as he could.

“Artyom, I think the name was,” Viktor said between gulps of mushroom vodka. His eyes were empty. “But when he was reaching for the switch, one of those… those _things_… It touched him and stopped him, and the bigger ones started ripping through us like paper…” He gave up on the glass and just drank from the bottle.

Pavel felt his heart sink. “You’re sure it was Artyom?” What in Hell had he been doing fighting? He was badly wounded… then again, that was just like the stubborn bastard. Painkillers and keep going.

“Yeah…_ Blin’_… Everybody there that I could see was maimed or killed by the train, but when those _things_ showed up... Everybody lost. If I didn’t run… There were only a few of us that came out sane, Pashenka. I know I should be shot for fleeing the battle, but if you had been there, if you had seen it…”

“I get it, Vitya. I saw the little one once.” So, not his fault. Not really. He’d try to tell himself that. If it weren't the Dark Ones, it would have been explosives. And he’d try to keep it from sinking in that Viktor had said _everyone_ he saw was maimed or killed. Including Artyom. There was no way that Artyom could survive something like that, not with the wounds he already had. But he wasn’t thinking about that, no he wasn’t. He was thinking about the Red Line and how it was bound to fall apart without the ones pulling the strings.

He decided he was going to drink with Viktor, drink until he forgot his own name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you for sticking with me this far. There's plenty more to come!


	5. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Artyom has far too much time for thinking and not enough answers.

Artyom woke. That was his first surprise. When he had closed his eyes after the little Dark One stopped him from setting off the explosives, he didn’t expect he’d ever open them again. Few people did, after being hit by a train.

The second surprise was that, from what he could tell, he had all of his limbs still attached to his torso in the right places. He shuddered as he recalled the way that Miller’s lower legs had been sheared off by the impact. Seconds later, as the pain began to register, he regretted that shudder. Yep, now he was starting to feel like he’d been plowed into by several tons of moving steel.

He thought maybe he’d woken before this, but he wasn’t sure. It was so hazy that it could have been a dream. Mostly, he remembered blue, an unforgettable shade, staring down at him as his hand was squeezed, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? Pavel had left him in Polis, for reasons Artyom was too scrambled to begin to process, and he’d gone back to the Red Line.

He tried to clear his vision, blinking owlishly, and turned his head only to hiss as searing agony shot down his spine and robbed him of breath. How badly was he damaged? Trying not to let panic take hold, he flexed his toes and fingers. They hurt, but they seemed to be in working order. That meant that everything else probably was, to enough of a degree that if it was handled correctly, he would be up and about again one day.

A blurred figure came toward him and he blinked again, getting annoyed at his eyes for betraying him like this. She had to get ridiculously close for him to recognize it as Polina, a medic with the Rangers. She was sweet until she got onto the battlefield, always gentle in tending to her patients.

“There he is. We were beginning to wonder if you would sleep until next year.” She smiled at him. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Artyom made a face and gingerly raised an arm (it hurt even to move that much) to point at his eyes.

“Ah, vision problems? You hit your head pretty hard, but those should go away in the next few weeks.”

He nodded, wincing as his neck protested. The next thing he pointed to was the pinpoint agony in his chest every time he breathed.

“Silly, you had that already when you were brought to Polis. I don’t know what you were thinking, fighting with such a wound, but if it weren’t for you that tank might have been the end of us.”

He nodded and made a gesture that clearly said, _Exactly_.

“Oh, you’re _so_ modest.” She faked hitting him, only lightly tapping his shoulder. “If you ever fight while wounded like that again, I will personally kill you.”

Artyom rolled his eyes so hard that even they hurt. After a pause and sigh, he gestured to his back questioningly.

“The Dark Ones stayed long enough to make sure you were intact. They’re… terrifying, but I think I like them. I bet your back still hurts, but it’s not broken. Think of it like whiplash that goes all the way down.”

Relief etched itself onto Artyom’s face. So he’d be able to move around without worrying about paralyzing himself. It would just hurt.

“Now then, you need to eat something and then rest- ah!” She cut off his gestures just as they were starting. “No arguing. I’ll bring you a book if you can’t sleep.”

Frowning, Artyom reluctantly nodded and settled in for what felt like the longest and most boring recovery of his life.

Of course, convalescence gave Artyom a lot of time for thinking. When his head cleared somewhat, he began devoting more effort to understanding what had happened. He remembered going into the building in Red Square, planning to kill Pavel; he wanted to make Pavel hurt before it was over, understand what Artyom had felt when he drugged him and left him to the Red Line interrogation. Left him for dead. He remembered having second thoughts, and those second thoughts getting him shot. That was where things got fuzzy. He thought for sure that Pavel had killed him and would leave his body to rot on the surface. Instead, he had vague, pain-filled memories of being carried through tunnels by someone who grunted and stumbled as if wounded themselves. It had been Pavel’s voice, he was almost certain, that chattered absently when he thought Artyom was unconscious. The words themselves had never registered, but the voice was unmistakable.

He remembered waking fully long enough to get them into Polis, jarred conscious by the sudden stop of the one carrying him. Again, it was Pavel’s voice that had begged them for entrance and direction to a doctor. Things had gone black again before they arrived.

So, then, why? Why shoot him and then take him to Polis? Why save the life of someone previously discarded? It wasn’t like Pavel had ever felt the way Artyom had. When they were on their grand escape together, Artyom couldn’t help but smile when Pavel did. He had taken comfort in the other’s voice (it still rang in his dreams, but the words were muddled when he woke). He had memorized each scar, each expression he saw as though he would never see it again, because Pavel was important to him. But it had all been a lie, a trick to get him to an interrogation room. Thinking about that hurt his chest more than the bullet, making it hard to breathe.

But… had it been a lie? It didn’t add up. Pavel had tried to get him to join the Red Line, to just tell them everything so he wouldn’t be hurt. He had shot Artyom, true, but then he had carried him to Polis rather than leave him to die. The Ranger put his hands over his face with a quiet groan. He’d never know unless he found Pavel and asked him directly, would he? But if he went back to the Red Line… there was every possibility he’d already been executed.

Executed… The word hung in his mind, waiting for realization to set in and send it crashing down like a missile. Pavel could be dead, and Artyom would never know the answer to his questions. He would never see those blue eyes again, so sad and tired even when he tried to pretend otherwise. He wouldn’t see them light up when he got a genuine chuckle out of the other, or the way they would glint in the firelight. He wouldn’t hear Pavel’s voice joking or chattering absently to fill the silence. He would never hear the Red soldier laugh again… His chest tightened further, stealing what breath he had.

Another sudden epiphany startled a husky laugh out of Artyom, lifting his spirits significantly. The Red Line was in chaos. Maybe they would forget about Pavel entirely. After all, all his superiors had been dealt with during the attack on D6, so who would he report to? And Moskvin wasn’t likely to go back after the public spectacle he’d made. How silly of Artyom, letting despair grip him like that for even a few moments. He would have to recover fast, so he could find Pavel before the Red Line caught up to him.

In the meantime, he picked up the book he'd requested, glad his eyesight had returned enough for him to read without difficulty.


	6. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pavel makes a discovery. Upsetting doesn't begin to describe it.

After a three-day bender that would have killed a horse, Pavel woke up with the worst hangover of his life. Everything he knew was falling apart, and he wasn’t sure if he had made it happen. He remembered little of the last three days, just bottles and some hazy drinking songs, and green eyes that haunted him whenever he closed his own. Viktor had disappeared at some point; Pavel wasn’t sure when. Probably around the time that everyone dispersed to drink alone… one of the days.

Pavel stood only to fall to his knees. How did being upright work, again? Oh, never mind, he would just crawl. He felt less sick that way, anyway, and if his foggy memories served, he wasn’t the only one who would be doing so today. He managed to make it to a toilet in time to empty his stomach of what he was certain was nearly pure vodka and took the opportunity to rest his forehead against the cold tile of the station for a moment after. It eased the spinning, aching, sick feeling that had settled in his skull and pounded with every sound of life in the area. His own heartbeat was too loud in his ears.

Finally, he made it to his feet and stayed there. Right, this was how one did it. He could definitely walk. Definitely. At least enough to go check on Viktor. The other man… Well. After everything, he needed somebody, and although Pavel was a sorry excuse for a friend by anyone’s reckoning, he would at least do what he could. He staggered to the other soldier’s room, managing not to vomit again on the way, and knocked.

And knocked.

By the time he opened the door, his stomach was churning for a different reason. Viktor hadn’t been himself since he came back from battle. The door bumped into something and Pavel felt his heart skip a beat as he slipped in; still, he had to know for sure.

Viktor’s body swayed gently as the door closed, swinging from a rope around the neck. Pavel took a step back and lost his balance, landing on his rear. In the back of his mind he was wondering why this surprised him, but the majority of him felt the rope as if it were around his own neck, choking him (Nazi rope, no stopping it now, no Artyom to cut him down). Clawing at his throat impotently did him no good. Viktor was still hanging there, glassy eyes staring at him accusingly. He should have been here. Should have stopped it. (It should have been him. He deserved to die.) He closed his eyes, face in his hands and feeling sicker than he had when he woke. It took effort and focus to remember that he could, in fact, still breathe. He was alive, after all, though the last of his friends was dead before him. (Because of him. He had known Viktor wasn’t quite right after the attack on D6.) He had to get him down, he knew, but his body refused to move under the sudden weight of guilt that threatened to crush him.

He didn’t know how long he sat before finally pulling himself together and mechanically beginning the process of lowering the body and wrapping it carefully in a sheet. He wasn’t sure the time mattered. There were no superiors left to report it to, so there was no hurry. He carried what had recently been his friend Viktor to the communal burial area, saying a quiet farewell to him and leaving him to the workers there. As the Red Line fell apart, they were bound to be busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the short chapter... And also for torturing Pavel this way.


	7. Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has to take the blame, and the Politburo doesn't intend to do it themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, how can I keep making it worse? I'm so sorry, Pavel. It'll get better soon, I swear.

For weeks after that, Pavel went about things in a fog. He absently wondered if this was what a breakdown felt like, and if it was in part because he had no orders to distract him from the collapse of all he had fought so hard for. Always, before, there had been orders, whether good or bad, but now he was cast adrift without direction. Comrade Moskvin hadn’t been heard from since Polis, and Comrade Korbut was worse than dead (maybe that was for the best), and the rest had gone with him one way or another.

There was still the Politburo, but they were in disarray. And so Pavel worked to salvage what was left of his shattered state, trying to forget the green eyes that still haunted him, more even than Viktor or the people of Oktyabrskaya. Thinking of those eyes and the man who owned them always caused his breath to catch in his throat, and he dreamed of them almost every night.

Some nights, he watched as the train plowed into Artyom, tore away flesh and limbs and left him bleeding to death beside comrades fortunate enough to die on impact. Sometimes it was the Nazis, putting him on trial, but instead of helping Artyom only stared at him accusingly in a way that spoke more than words ever could. Sometimes Artyom stalked him through the tunnels, wrath filling his eyes as he cut Pavel’s throat with the same knife Pavel had given him when they first met. Those nights, he woke in a cold sweat and couldn’t sleep again for hours.

Some nights were much, much worse. Those nights he woke with his arms feeling far too empty and memories of tender touches still dancing across his skin. Sometimes, he woke with his cock throbbing and his chest aching, reaching for the ghost of the man he had betrayed. Those were the nights he drank, staring at his wall and willing the past to change, knowing that will alone couldn’t turn back the clock. Will alone couldn’t bring back the dead.

The morning after one of those wonderful, terrible dreams he was working as usual, trying to banish the feeling that something vital had been stolen, when two soldiers he vaguely knew came up to him. They didn’t bother to say hello or even ask him to come along, just yanked him down the corridors of the station without preamble.

This was it. His death had caught up to him.

In a way, Pavel was relieved. No more waiting, no more aching, just one bullet and it would be finished. Green eyes flashed through his mind, and he let himself wonder as he stumbled along with the soldiers if there really was such a thing as a soul, and if he would be able to properly apologize to Artyom once he was executed.

He was brought before the Politburo. This was not personal, they made clear, but someone had to be an example after all the terrible things that had happened. Oktyabrskaya, the attack on D6 which was an utter failure, the alienation of the Rangers by such an act. Moskvin, he was told, had hanged himself after confessing the murder of his brother. (There it was again, the nightmare of the rope, flashing before his eyes, constricting his throat. Breathe, breathe, it was only a memory…) Korbut was gone. He, Pavel, was the highest-ranking officer left who bore any responsibility for it, and so he was to take the blame.

Pavel felt like his head was floating off his shoulders. He had followed orders. This wasn’t for failing, it was for doing as he was told for the glory of the Red Line… He couldn’t understand it, couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Even as they continued to speak, he could only focus on that. Orders were orders, he had followed them all no matter how it had hurt (except the one about killing Artyom, but that wasn’t the issue, he was the only one living to know about that disobedience). Now he was being blamed for the orders he was given? Was he being punished for the awful things he’d done, or was he just a scapegoat to calm the masses and direct their ire away from the Politburo itself?

Oh, they had gotten to the part about punishment. Pavel yanked himself back to the present and tried to listen.

“…You, Pavel Igorevich Morozov, will be publicly exiled, never to return to the Red Line.”

There it was, that floating feeling again. He was to be exiled, publicly shamed. He wasn’t even worth the bullet, they were just going to put him out on the surface and let it finish him. He heard himself accepting the punishment quietly, as though from a distance, and let the soldiers take him to get his personal possessions. He was grateful for their rough support, because if they weren’t holding him steady, he thought he might have fallen to his knees. The last thing he had, the Red Line, had discarded him without a second thought. He worked for and believed in it all his life, and now it too had finally been stripped from him.

He was allowed to choose three changes of clothing and two trinkets to take with him, he was told. The rest would go back to the people. He selected his favorite garments, making sure to include something warm, and picked up his lighter. He looked at it for a moment, remembering the identical one Artyom had, and tucked it away in a pocket. As for the second trinket, he chose something that wouldn’t even help him survive – a picture of his family, back before the bombs had fallen. He was only a baby in it, but it was all he had left of them.

As soon as he pocketed the photo, the soldiers yanked him out. They weren’t wasting much time, it seemed. They marched him in front of a crowd, and he found himself losing focus again as the charges against him were read out. He scanned the faces, and their unfamiliarity added to the surrealism of the moment. This had to be a dream, didn’t it? A nightmare that he would wake up from eventually. He hadn’t been listening, and it caught him by surprise when he was ushered unceremoniously to the door to the surface. He managed not to fall and walked toward his fate with as much dignity as the two men upsetting his balance allowed.


	8. Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mad dash across the surface, even if Pavel doesn't see much point in it.

As the door closed behind him, Pavel held his breath and raced for the surface. They had intended him to suffocate quickly without a gas mask, but the joke was on them – Pavel had used this route more than once. He was aware of a body farther up that had a damaged mask he could salvage. Fear spurred him on as his lungs began to burn, and the second he had the slightly disgusting mask on he gulped the air down in shuddering gasps. Relief surged through him; yes, he deserved to die, but not by suffocating. Anything but that. He rubbed his throat absently, trying to banish a phantom sensation that always showed up at the worst of times.

He began to search the body, excited to find two more filters. _A Red Line officer does not steal from corpses_, his own words to Artyom echoed in his mind, chastising him. But he wasn’t a Red Line officer anymore, was he? He was nothing. A med kit and a pistol added themselves to his collection, along with eight rounds of ammo.

Pavel stared at the pistol thoughtfully. Aimed right, it would take only one round, leaving seven for the next poor fuck to come along. He had nothing now. No state, no orders, no _order,_ nothing at all. (No companionship, no one to miss him.) Looking around him, though, he decided this wasn’t where he wanted to be stuck, if he really had a soul to leave behind. It was bleak and lonely, despite the desolate beauty it flaunted with each lash of rain. He needed to get moving, but where?

Ah, he could go to D6. Assuming they didn’t save him the trouble of pulling the trigger himself, they could tell him where Artyom was buried. He could go there, maybe apologize one last time. Maybe have one more dream of those haunting green eyes, as close to him as he would ever be again. Then, he would do it.

Pavel stood, planning the route in his head. He might be ill-equipped, but he was fairly sure he could make it back into the Metro through the nearest entrance. If memory served, that was one of the Polis entrances, and- right. Polis. There were Rangers in Polis. His exile must have hit him harder than he thought. To Polis, then, and D6 only if they refused to tell him where to find Artyom’s grave.

The former Red soldier shook his head to clear it and got moving, the rain providing enough cover to make it relatively safely. It soaked him to the bone, but he preferred possibly toxic water on his skin to definitely deadly teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter is super short. I've been busy the last few days, but hopefully I can post something longer in a day or two.


	9. Back to Polis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artyom is conflicted; Pavel makes it back into the Metro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long! Things got a little hectic before Thanksgiving, but I'm back now, I promise.

Artyom paced, unable to settle. Yes, okay. He understood that the materials in D6 needed to be disposed of before even one Ranger could be spared. Still, his gut twisted whenever he looked at a clock, every tick reminding him that time could be running out for Pavel. He had to know. He was still hurt, still angry, but he was fairly certain it had been proven that he didn’t want Pavel dead.

Did he want to shout? Yes, definitely, though chances were his voice would fail him as usual. Did he want to hit Pavel right in the mouth? He didn’t know.

“Trying to put a groove in the floor, eh, Artyom?” Ulman chuckled, leaning against the doorway. “I’m pretty sure your boots will wear out before it does.”

Artyom made a vague, slightly annoyed gesture.

“Hey, take it easy. Something eating you?” Ulman grew slightly more serious, trying to get Artyom to look at him.

A sharp, horizontal cutting motion of the hand indicated that Artyom didn’t want to talk about it.

“Is it the reminder we’re not immortal?” That was something that had bothered Ulman himself; he had scraped through, but one of his legs was near useless now. He’d told them to just cut it off, but that carried more risk than leaving it, and so he was forced to use a cane on good days and a wheelchair on bad ones.

Artyom nodded. That was close enough. And for that matter, he really _didn’t_ like the reminder that every time one of them went out the door, they might never come back. But that was part of life as a Ranger. It didn’t eat at him the way that anything and everything to do with Pavel did.

“Listen,” Ulman said, working off what he’d been given, “I get it, really. But if you let it chew you up inside, you’re gonna go crazy. How about a few rounds of cards later? It’s not much, but maybe it’ll take your mind off it.”

Artyom nodded. Maybe that would help. Isolating himself certainly wasn’t doing him any good; all it did was give him more time to drive himself insane with questions. He made a gesture indicating food, hoping Ulman understood.

“Yeah, I could eat. Let’s go,” the older Ranger responded, attempting to hide a wince as he pushed off the wall.

Artyom led the way to their makeshift cafeteria, hoping a meal with other living human beings would comfort him.

When Pavel ducked back into the metro – not even into Polis proper, just far enough to take off his mask – he found a nice, secluded place to sit. He needed it, not because of his leg that screamed it wasn’t ready yet for such a sprint, despite the time to heal, but because his head was once again floating off his shoulders, leaving him feeling dizzy and weak. He looked at the bag that contained everything he owned, soaked through just like he was, and found himself laughing.

He wondered if he was losing his mind.

There was nothing funny about this, about losing the last bit of his world that he had to cling to. There was no humor in this death march of his, seeking out a part of his world that he had destroyed through his own actions. Maybe it was silly to try to find a grave that might not even exist—he could hope, pray to a god that didn’t exist but might, just like his own soul, that the Spartans buried their dead—but what did he have left?

The former Red officer shivered in the cold of the metro, the dreams of last night haunting him again, and once again his arms and the space around him felt too empty, too lonely, it was unbearable—

But he would bear it, because there was no other choice. What could he do, cry? And who would that help? He’d learned, early on, that crying only got you a stuffy nose and a headache, and your problems were still your problems after you were done. And the other option to put an end to the feeling was death, the same death that had been chasing him, toying with him like a cat with a mouse, but that was for after he’d found where his d'Artagnan’s body lay. Then and only then, he’d spill his own blood… an offering, maybe, a show of remorse for all the things he’d done to fail him, or perhaps just to join him. Pavel knew he didn’t deserve to live.

He finally pulled himself together, wiping what was definitely rain and not tears from his eyes, and stood to continue his trek. There were Rangers here, Rangers who could tell him where to find his end. It wasn’t far ahead, now, and when his chest felt so tight and the future seemed so bleak, he almost looked forward to it.


End file.
